


the shores i know

by abovetheruins



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anger, Dysfunctional Family, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 09:11:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1463773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/abovetheruins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three months is all it takes for the Yeagers’ lives to change – new town, new house, new life. But Grisha would rather work himself to death than spend time with his kids, Mikasa’s got the weight of a crumbling family on her shoulders, and Eren’s just so damn angry all the time. Feeling trapped and alone, he finds an unexpected companion in the soft spoken boy who lives next door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the shores i know

**Author's Note:**

> one of these days I will write a summary that satisfies me but today is not that day. this is my first eremin fic to see the light of day woah stop the presses. cliches and dork love abound in this one, folks (with a little bit of angst thrown in for zest). title comes from walt whitman’s “as i ebb’d with the ocean of life.” warnings/rating will be added/adjusted as we go along. 
> 
> also please feel free to point out any mistakes, as this fic is unbeta’d and even copious rereads on my part doesn’t mean that I caught everything (if anyone would like to offer up their services as a beta, that would also be much appreciated!)

The scenery outside his window never changes, an unending blur of the same color scheme – greens, reds, bursts of orange here and there to break up the monotony. Eren is sure he's seen the same tree twenty goddamn times.

His father’s got the radio on low, some classical music station Eren can't place. He can hear snippets of an orchestra whenever a song switches over on his ipod. Grisha Yeager sits stiff and silent in the driver's seat, expression perfectly blank. He'd stopped trying to strike up a conversation about an hour into the drive, after they'd crossed state lines if Eren remembers right. Just as well, really. 

He slumps further down into his seat, pressing his forehead to the window. The glass is cool against his skin, the weather outside chill and crisp. Autumn is well under way; it'll be the first of October in less than a week. 

Sighing through his nose, Eren sticks his hands into the pocket of his hoodie and glances at the other occupant of the backseat. He finds her in the same position – earbuds in, eyes firmly trained out the window. Her mouth and chin is obscured by a thick red scarf, the color dulled from repeated washes and worn thin by age. It’s a welcome sight, a dose of familiarity that Eren sorely needs; he’d given it to Mikasa years ago and she never went without it. 

There’s a sense of camaraderie in the backseat despite the lack of words. Solidarity in silence. Mikasa has never been big on words in the first place, not since she was small and had first come to live with them. Eren, on the other hand, has never known when to shut up. Time has done little to change either of them – Mikasa is and has always been more at home with silence, whereas Eren needs chaos and calamity and _sound_. The strained silence in the car makes his fingers itch, his teeth grind. His body aches from being confined to such a small space for so long, the music blaring in his ears the only thing keeping him calm. Even Mikasa, stoic and unmalleable as she may often seem, has dark smudges under her eyes. Eren doesn’t look at his father but he’s noticed the lines around Grisha’s eyes, the sickly pallor of his skin. They’re all exhausted, running on fumes. 

Three hours on the road has done nothing but make Eren feel worse - trapped, sick. His eyes burn with exhaustion, what little scenery there is to see melting into a blur the longer he looks out the window. There’s nothing out here but trees, a few farms dotted here and there, a handful of houses scattered about. It all looks so damn _empty_.

They’d passed through a town about half an hour ago – Trost, Grisha had called it. His father had made sure to point out the building that would be their new school – Trost High – though he had said little beyond that. Eren had scowled at the groups of kids gathered on the front lawn, the teams out on the practice fields, indistinct blurs of people that he didn't know and didn’t want to know. Mikasa had barely glanced at the red brick building before closing her eyes and settling down for a faux nap, undisturbed but unhappy all the same. 

They had driven past an old fashioned movie theater on the way out of town, the marquee cracked and fading, past the hospital where his father would work, a few tiny hotels and a grocery store, along with rows of small storefronts. Eren had spotted a coffeehouse, an antiques store, and a bookstore among them.

Mikasa jostles his shoulder, bringing him back to the present. He yanks out one of his earbuds so that he can hear her, raising an eyebrow when she doesn't say anything.

“What is it?” He asks, his voice cracking a bit from disuse. His father glances back at them through the rear-view mirror but says nothing, eyes returning to the road. 

“We’re almost there,”Mikasa mumbles, voice muffled by the folds of her scarf.

Eren sits up a little straighter in the seat, looking out the front window and frowning when he spots no discernible change in the scenery. “Where?”

His father peers at him in the rear view mirror again, expression unreadable. “Up ahead,” he says, flicking on the turn signal. “On the left.”

They end up turning down a side road that had escaped Eren's notice, hidden neatly by overgrown brush. A sign nearly overtaken by rust and fauna proclaims the road a dead end.

_Appropriate_ , Eren thinks moodily, and slumps back into his seat to wait.

The car jolts over dips in the road, concrete giving way to dirt. The trees along both sides of the road are half barren, leaves scattered about the ground and crunching beneath the tires. Another side road branches off to the left – Eren tries to see where it goes but can spot little through the trees. A little further down the road widens, the trees thinning out until they're less of a smothering presence and instead are dotted randomly here and there throughout what opens up into a small front yard. 

A strained hush falls over the car as they come closer to the house settled squarely in the center, even Mikasa leaning forward in her seat to get a better view. 

The front yard is peppered with leaves, bursts of red, orange, and gold among the green. The trees dotting the landscape line up along the driveway as well, branches forming a series of imperfect archways over the road. The house itself is two stories, painted a pale yellow with a grey roof and grey foundation, the windows and front porch painted a stark white. A cobblestone walkway leads up to the porch, beside which sits a tiny, rust red car, unattended.

“The movers should have already been and gone,” Grisha mutters, pulling up alongside the car and killing the engine. He steps out, taking a moment to look around, hands on his hips. Mikasa shares a look with Eren, a silent _here we go_ , rearranging her scarf so that it sits more snugly around her neck and opening her own door without a word.

Eren breathes in thickly through his nose, letting it out in a slow, heavy sigh before he slips free of the buckle and reaches for the door. As he steps out of the car he eyes the cheery yellow walls of this new house, the dark windows with their bright white frames. He wonders what sort of family had lived there before. Wonders if they’d loved being so far out here, if they'd thrived in the country air or if it had just been a necessity, somewhere for them to run and hide.

"Ah, good evening!"

He blinks at the sight of an old man walking toward them with a cheery grin and wave from beyond the side of the house. He's tall and thin, graying hair trimmed into a neat mustache and beard, the rest hidden beneath a worn, brown hat. There's dirt smeared on his hands and cheeks, his boots caked with mud.

"Hello." Grisha looks a little bewildered as the old man reaches for his hand, shaking it heartily. The contrast of their hands is like day and night, Grisha's slim and pale and the old man's brown and weathered. "I'm sorry, you are - ?"

"Armand Arlert," the old man says, smiling. "We spoke on the phone a few times. Mr. Yeager, I'm assuming?"

"Oh, yes. My apologies." Grisha gestures to the two of them idling by the car. "This is my son, Eren, and my daughter, Mikasa."

Mikasa nods in acknowledgment, Eren waving lazily. Mr. Arlert smiles at the two of them, the laugh lines around his mouth more prominent with the action. 

"Kids,” Grisha continues, “this is Mr. Arlert. He's the... well, I'm not particularly certain of the technical term for it – “

"A groundskeeper, of sorts," Mr. Arlert supplies. "Not in any official capacity, but the family who lived here before were close friends and asked me to keep an eye on their property until they could secure a buyer. I've mostly just been taking care of the yard, a little maintenance here and there, keeping the house tidy."

"You've done a marvelous job," Grisha says, looking at the house. "The property looks well cared for."

"Thank you. My grandson helped me out as well, particularly during the summer months." Mr. Arlert glances at Eren. "He's about your age, actually. We live a little further down the road. You can't see it clearly here, but if you go down by the lake we're pretty easy to spot."

"Lake?" Eren asks, unable to mask his curiosity. He'd heard nothing about a lake.

Mr. Arlert nods, waving his hand toward the back of the house. "Yes, it spans from this property to my own and a little beyond. It's not much of a fishing spot, but my grandson and I like to take a boat out and enjoy the peace and quiet every once and a while. You kids will appreciate it more in the summer, I'm sure. It makes for a great swimming spot."

"I'm sure they'll make full use of it," Grisha says. "Mr. Arlert, I actually wanted to talk to you a bit about the property, if you don't mind."

"Of course, of course."

"Kids." Grisha turns to them. "All of your boxes should be in your rooms. Why don't you go unpack?"

Mikasa makes a small "hn" of assent, nodding to Mr. Arlert in passing as she heads up the walkway and onto the front porch. Eren follows, hefting his backpack onto his shoulder.

He hears Grisha’s voice as he opens the front door, tinged with the same traces of exhaustion and resignation Eren has become accustomed to in the past three months. "I apologize for my children, Mr. Arlert. They're not usually so reserved, but they've been through a lot – “ The rest is cut off by the thud of the front door closing behind him. 

Eren stands in the entryway, letting the quiet of the house wash over him, knowing exactly what his father is saying to Mr. Arlert without needing to hear it - about the move, about the new job, about Mom. He doesn't even realize he's clenched his fists until he feels the sharp sting of his nails digging into his palms. 

He breathes in sharply, closing his eyes and counting slowly, a steady mantra of _1... 2... 3_ , letting his breath out in a rush. Tension coils tightly in his body, his chest tight, but another deep breath dispels the worst of it, enough so that Eren is able to open his eyes and look clearly at the house for the first time. 

The entire first floor has an open layout, the front hallway branching off to the living room on the right and a sitting room on the left. Beyond that is a dining area and the kitchen, blocked from Eren’s view by the staircase leading up to the second floor. He can hear Mikasa moving around up there, can hear the low thrum of conversation as his father and Mr. Arlert continue to talk quietly outside. Aside from that the house is quiet, though the floorboards creak softly under his shoes each time Eren takes a step.

There are boxes everywhere, furniture from their old house dumped with no rhyme or reason. Eren sidesteps it all and heads into the kitchen, his shoes squeaking on the tile. The walls are painted white, the counters a dark gray marble. A window over the sink lets the sunlight in, falling in strips across the floor. Eren passes a cursory glance over it all, letting his backpack fall to the floor as he heads towards the back door. It opens out onto the back porch, the same eggshell white as the one out front. Beyond that Eren can see the lake, wide and gleaming in the late evening sun. 

He slumps over the railing, watching the way the sunlight filters through the trees and makes hazy patterns on the water’s surface. The wind picks up, dislodging a few leaves that float down onto the water in slow, graceful arcs. Somewhere a frog croaks. Further down Eren sees a tiny rowboat idling in the water. There’s someone sitting in it, a wide-brimmed hat obscuring their face, something spread open on their lap. A book, maybe. Eren squints, trying to spot some defining characteristic and unable to make out anything but a person-shaped blur. Probably Mr. Arlert's grandson. The old man said he was about Eren's age – Eren wonders how the kid deals with it, living so far out here, hidden away in the woods. All of it – the water, the trees, the way everyone is so removed from each other – is peaceful in a way that Eren’s unfamiliar with, which is probably why his father drug them out here in the first place.

Scowling, feeling that itch creeping under his skin once again, Eren grips the rail and strikes a well-aimed kick at one of the posts. The toe of his boot scratches a black scuff mark into the white paint, slivers of wood breaking free and falling to the ground below. Nearby a bird trills in alarm and takes to the sky, a small dose of chaos that does little to quell Eren’s anger. What is his father even _thinking_? That running away is going to help? That sticking their fucking heads in the sand and acting like nothing happened is going to solve anything? 

_It’s not that fucking easy, old man_. 

A hand on his shoulder makes him jump; he whirls around to see Mikasa eyeing him, her steady gaze neither comforting nor condemning. 

“Mr. Arlert left us a casserole,” she says, her voice devoid of inflection. “Come eat.” 

She hesitates before turning around, her eyes narrow, and before Eren can wave her off she’s stuffing her sleeve into his face and wiping roughly at his eyes.

“O-ow!” He pushes her arm away, eyes stinging. “My eyes were fucking open, Mikasa!”

She shrugs one elegant shoulder, nonplussed. “Come eat,” she repeats, opening the back door. She pauses on the threshold – Eren can hear their father moving around in the kitchen, the clink of dishes and boxes being opened. “You’re not alone, Eren,” she says, voice quiet. She doesn’t look at him. “I’m here, too.” She doesn't wait for a response , probably wasn't expecting one anyway. The door clicks quietly shut behind her.

For a moment there’s nothing but the sound of the wind and the water gently lapping at the bank behind Eren. He can hear Mikasa and their father in the kitchen – footsteps, cutlery, the fridge door opening and closing, but no voices. They might be out of the car, might have all of this open space, but they're still fucking trapped. 

Eren rubs at his eyes, annoyed, less at Mikasa's words and more at the tell tale wetness he feels there. 

 

A plate of Mr. Arlert’s casserole sits on his bedside table; Eren takes a bite every now and then, in between pushing boxes into corners, digging out pillows and blankets for the bed. 

His bedroom looks out onto the backyard and a sliver of the lake, the water dark and limpid now that the sun has set. Above the tree line Eren can see a cloudless sky full of stars, the moon a thin crescent. The house is eerily silent, Mikasa and their father sequestered in their own rooms. After the cramped car ride no one feels like company.

Eren has headphones curled around his neck, music playing softly through the speakers. Boxes litter the floor, most of them pushed out of the way to be dealt with later. He’s done little but unpack just what he needs to get through the night – his blankets and pillows for the bed, the charger for his phone. He’s sitting on the floor going through one of the boxes labeled ‘Misc,’ thumbing through CDs and DVDs, a few books hastily thrown in. He hesitates as his fingers brush against something thin and wrapped in newspaper, the only thing he’d made an effort to pack away carefully.

He breaks the tape holding the edges together, gently unwinding the newspaper and dropping the excess to the floor. Beneath the wrappings is a black frame, gilded along the edges in silver. The picture within shows both himself and Mikasa, both of them preteens at the time, wearing bathing suits. Eren’s smile is all teeth, his hair dusted with sand, Mikasa at his side wearing a large, floppy sunhat that Eren had teased her mercilessly for until she’d stuffed his face into the sand. Behind them stands a dark-haired woman, sunglasses pushed back to rest on her forehead, one pale hand on either of their shoulders. She’s smiling gently, her nose and cheeks red with sunburn. In the distance is a strip of blue ocean, waves caught mid-crash against the shoreline.

Eren stares at the photo for a long time, lost in thought. His father had taken it the last time they’d all gone on vacation as a family, a week-long trip to the beach. Eren remembers how awestruck he had been seeing the ocean for the first time, how small it had made him feel to stand at the shoreline, toes barely brushing the surf, watching the waves crest and swell, crest and swell.

They hadn’t been allowed to go out far, but he had grabbed at Mikasa’s hand and barreled into the waves with a high-pitched battle cry, the salt stinging his eyes and filling his nose. Mikasa had kept him afloat, yanking at his arm whenever he got too enthusiastic and face-planted into the water. Their parents had kept watch from the beach – Eren remembers glancing back at the shore and spotting their mother’s sunhat like a bright yellow beacon guiding them back. 

His eyes burn as he continues to stare at the photo. It’s only nine o’clock but his eyelids are so heavy, stinging with the ache of exhaustion. Yesterday he had woken up in the same room he’d grown up in, the same house he’d lived in for fifteen years. Just a week before he had taken the same bus to the same school, seen the same faces. In two days he and Mikasa would be dumped into a new school, surrounded by strangers, already over a month behind the other students. 

And their father? Eren scoffs. Their father would disappear. Hide himself away in that hospital the same way he'd hidden himself away in his office back home. Eren knows it with a surety born from experience – this entire move was nothing but an escape plan. Just because they've arrived, though, doesn't mean Grisha's stopped running.

Eren jerks his headphones over his ears, blocking out the quiet of the house and his own teeth grinding in the back of his mouth. He climbs into bed and yanks the blankets up over his shoulders, reaching over to the bedside table to switch off the lamp.

The photo frame is a heavy weight against his chest. Eren stares at it in the dark for a long time, tracing the blurry outline of his mother's face, the warm curve of her smile.

It's a long while before he falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> uuugh sorry for the boring first chapter gotta lay the groundwork and all that
> 
> also as far as I’m aware armin’s grandfather doesn’t have a canon first name, so. yay for creative liberties!


End file.
